


change of venue

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Friendship/Love, Gen, Immigration & Emigration, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Russian Castiel, Teenagers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-14
Updated: 2014-05-15
Packaged: 2018-01-24 16:37:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1612007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Winchesters settle down for the first time in years. Dean befriends the Russian boy who lives next door.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. July 1999

**Author's Note:**

> Hover over the Cyrillic text for translations!

Dean is thirteen when John finally decides to settle them down, and he’s old enough to be glad and bitter at the same time.

Glad, because it means Sammy won’t have to be dragged from school to school, like Dean has been; bitter because something about the transience is a part of him, now, wants to keep moving, keep driving. To him, the air of an open road flowing in through a window tastes better than the stale air of their new apartment.

“New” is, of course, a relative statement. The place is dusty and basic, with shag carpet that has gaps along the edges of the walls and peeling windowsills, holes in the screen, one in the small living room that looks to him like someone dragged a key through the edge just for kicks. There’s two rooms—one for John and one, the larger one, for Dean and Sam—and a small kitchen tucked behind an indoor window gap, no windows in it because they share that wall with the neighbors.

Dean makes a face as they haul cardboard boxes full of their clothes inside. It earns him a smack over the head from John, but Sam looks happy when they walk inside, and so Dean tries not to feel too ungrateful.

It’s not that he minds the way the place looks: they’ve stayed in far worse motel rooms a dozen times over in the past few months alone. It’s that John intends for them to be stuck here, no escape to the next town, the next job. Dean loathes that kind of permanence.

They leave their boxes and start back down the stairs, all three flights. They don’t have a lot of stuff, because furniture isn’t the kind of luxury they’ve ever had, but there’s still odds and ends, loose coat hangers and air mattresses and John’s old guitar that Dean’s slowly learning to play.

Indoor parking lots aren’t the kind of luxury they get at these particular apartment complexes, either, so the Impala’s parked garishly in the outside lot between the buildings. John’s muttering, “Gonna get keyed,” as he piles two of the rolled-up air mattresses into Dean’s arms and sends him on ahead, Sammy placed in charge of the house keys.

Dean’s making his way through the second-floor breezeway to the final open-air flight of stairs when a kid darts out of the building’s laundromat, right in front of him. They collide, Dean dropping the air mattresses on the concrete with a yelp and quarters going flying and skittering out of the other kid’s hands. Behind him, Sam cries, “Dean!” and pitches forward, trying to grab futilely for mattresses and quarters at once.

“Jesus Christ!” Dean says, and grabs the other kid by the upper arms to steady him as he reels backwards. “Dude, are you all right?”

The kid, he sees now, has wildly messy hair and looks to be about Dean’s age, clad in torn-up jeans with grass stains and a long-sleeved shirt with buttons under a long raincoat. It’s pretty cold outside, so Dean doesn’t blame him. He opens his mouth, but can’t seem to find a response, so Dean brushes off the kid’s sleeves on autopilot—like he would for Sam—and says, “Gotta watch where you’re going, man,” before stooping to pick the air mattresses up off the grimy floor. “Sammy?”

“I’m fine, Dean,” Sam says, though he’s looking at the other kid with as much interest as Dean.

This is, Dean realizes, the first time they’re ever going to have long-term neighbors. Maybe it’s important to make a better impression than _watch where you’re going, man._

Making a decision, he hands off one of the air mattresses to Sam, says, “I’ll catch up,” and stoops to help the other kid pick up his multitude of scattered quarters, the other mattress tucked under his arm. The edge of the kid’s coat is dragging over the ground as he crouches and picks up his coins, but he doesn’t seem to care, and he still hasn’t spoken a word. Dean attempts, “Hey, uh, I’m Dean. We’re just moving in upstairs.”

The other kid looks up at him, looking startled—like he hadn’t expected to be spoken to further. He’s got a serious sort of face, like he’s not really used to smiling. “Dean?” he says, and it sounds accented. Dean wonders where he’s from.

“Yeah, Dean. New neighbor, just me and my dad and my brother,” Dean repeats, and divests the coins he’s collected into the guy’s palm. “What’s your name?”

This, at last, gets a flicker of understanding. “Castiel,” the boy says, and offers him a weak sort of half-smile. With the same thick accent that Dean finally places as Russian, he hesitantly explains, “My English—not very good?”

“Gotcha,” says Dean, and smiles at him to make sure he gets it’s not a problem. Pointing to the air mattress with his free hand, and then pointing up, he says, “I need to get this up to our place, all right?”

Castiel nods, and dumps the quarters he’s holding into the big pockets of his raincoat. When Dean turns to go, he follows, which Dean figures means he lives on the same floor. “You Russian?” he asks, while they plod together up the stairs, feet scuffing over rough floor. Dean wonders if ice is a problem in the winter.

“Yes,” Castiel says, apparently catching the reference to his nationality, at least. “We . . . new,” he finishes, awkwardly, like he wishes he could say more, and Dean flashes him another smile.

“Must’ve been a long trip,” he tells Castiel, and then they’re on the third floor. The door to their new apartment is slightly ajar, and he can hear Sam moving around inside. Dean points to it and says, “We’re right here.”

Castiel nods at him gravely, and points over his shoulder to the door across the upper-floor breezeway that reads _6D_. “Here,” he tells Dean, and, apparently in reference to the coins, “Thank you.”

“No problem,” Dean says, and gives him a wave before heading into the apartment to drop off the mattress.

Sam is on him instantly inside, grabbing the mattress out of his hands and running it to their new room. Dean thinks, _we haven’t had a room since we were little_. Sam is asking “Who was that, Dean?” as they head into it. There’s a closet, and a big window, and plenty of space for both of them, for once.

“Cas,” he tells Sam, “Castiel. He lives across the way.”

“Okay,” says Sam. “Help me with the mattresses?”

Dean does.

* * *

The first night in the new place feels weird, weirder than a motel. It’s quiet, for one thing, though Dean can hear the wind whipping past the outside of the building, occasionally rattling the window pane, but he thinks it’s also because the place is so empty. There’s no borrowed furniture here, just him and Sam on their respective air mattresses and their couple of boxes of stuff sitting in the room’s middle, to be moved into the closet later.

It’s strange not to have to hear John snore, with two closed doors between them, but that change, at least, Dean appreciates. He manages to fall asleep around the time his watch reads midnight; Sam had nodded off far earlier, tuckered out by the day’s efforts to get everything moved in.

He’s woken the next morning by Sam climbing over him and poking him in the face, demanding, “ _Dean_ , dad says we need to get groceries.”

They have a fridge now, Dean thinks blearly, as he sits up and shoves Sam off him. A proper one, not a miniature one. And a _stove_. And a microwave that isn’t shared, even. “Yeah,” he says, “okay, hold on.”

Sam bounces out of the room while Dean rifles through their boxes and finds a change of clothes, then wanders into the short hallway and uses the bathroom and brushes his teeth without toothpaste, because he can’t find his travel-sized tube. John wanders past while he’s doing so, says, “Ready in ten, Dean,” at which Dean just nods.

He sees Castiel again on the way out, standing in his own doorway on the other side of the breezeway, talking to someone inside the apartment in his own language—Russian, presumably. Dean doesn’t catch a word of it except _да_ and _нет_ , which he knows well enough, and, in exasperated tones, _Габриель!_ which he figures is someone Castiel lives with.

He waves and says, “Hey, Cas,” before descending down the stairs after John and Sam, and Castiel just barely manages to wave back, a faint surprised smile crossing his features.

* * *

They stock up on more than groceries at the supermarket. John fills the cart with hot dogs and bread, sure, but he also throws in notebooks and pencils and a backpack, all things that remind Dean that he’s going to have to go to school here, for real, not just swooping in for the space of a month and leaving before he can even secure a grade.

Sam, of course, is thrilled.

When they get back it once again falls to Dean to heave the heavy bags up the stairs. “Should’ve gotten a place that wasn’t on the top floor, dad,” is met with, “Oh, and do you want to pay for it, son?” which shuts him right up, because yeah. There’s not much Dean can say to that that isn’t fucking stupid.

He doesn’t see Castiel this time, but the door to the opposite apartment does open while Dean is fishing for the key in his pocket, grocery bags piled around his feet. He turns to find another kid jumping out, and he thinks at first this must be Cas’s younger brother, maybe, except he realizes as the guy wanders closer that he’s just really short, maybe high school age. “Hey,” Dean offers, tentatively. At least he didn’t run into anyone, this time.

“Hey, buddy,” the guy says. He has a hint of an accent, too, but not nearly as bad as Castiel’s; in fact, if Dean didn’t know to listen for it, he thinks he wouldn’t have caught it at all. “Cassie mentioned you! Dean, right? New move-ins?”

“Uh,” Dean says, “Yeah.” And, because he has a talent for sticking his foot in his mouth: “Your English is good, dude.”

“No shit,” short guy says, “I’ve been living here for years. Cassie just moved, so he doesn’t speak as much. I’m Gabe, magician extraordinaire.” And he sticks out his hand, grinning around the lollipop that’s hanging out of the side of his mouth.

Dean shakes his hand a little warily. There’s something off about the guy, like his grin’s more of a jokester’s leer than a friendly smile. “Dean,” he says, “but you already knew that.”

“Yeah, Dean-o,” Gabe says, and, “Cassie seems to like you, anyway. Be nice to my little brother, huh?”

“You’re his brother?” Dean says, and finally locates his key, managing to wrench open the door with a grunt, lifting it so it doesn’t stick. He gets the feeling he’s going to get to know all the building’s idiosyncrasies while they stay here.

“Oh, yeah,” Gabe says. “I’m the one that’ll beat you up if any harm comes to him, that sorta thing.”

“All right, then,” Dean says blankly. _Weird._ He leans away to pick up the grocery bags.

Sam takes this moment to reach the top of the steps with bags of his own—the lighter ones—and Gabe flashes him a grin before skipping around him to head down the stairs. “Later, Dean-o!” he calls, and jumps from the top one, taking them down two at a time.

Dean shakes his head and goes inside, Sam already pelting him with questions.

* * *

He doesn’t see Gabe or Castiel again for the next week, which they spend settling in. Once the fridge is full and their few boxes are unpacked, John goes to work at the nearby mechanic’s that he managed to land a job before deciding to settle. As soon as he gets a paycheck, they go out to buy a table to eat at (plastic with foldable legs to start with, but it’s better than eating breakfast at the kitchen counter every morning) and several chairs, plus a desk for Dean and Sam’s room. They can’t quite afford a chair yet for that one, but John gets an old computer case from somewhere for them to sit on, which works just as well.

John relegates a corner of the big empty living room as his study and settles in there with his bulky IBM laptop when he’s at home, which he isn’t, much. When Dean asks him about work he says it’s fine, though, and he doesn’t seem too unhappy not to be moving around anymore, so Dean lets it be.

He watches for liquor bottles in the fridge, though. There aren’t any yet, but he can never be sure, with his dad.

A few days in the excitement of the apartment has worn off, and both he and Sam are starting to go stir-crazy. It’s mid-July, so they won’t be starting school for a while, though John’s in the process of filing the public enrollment paperwork (and by “in the process of” Dean mostly means he’s seen the papers lying around in John’s corner of the living room, untouched—he’s wondering if he should ask John whether he should fill them out himself). Sam’s occupying himself with books, and Dean is too, sort of, if you count trying to focus on a sentence for upwards of a half an hour as _reading._

By noon on Friday, when John’s still at work, Dean’s bouncing a rubber ball against the wall and groaning, “Sammy, I need to get out of here for a while. Let’s at least scope at the neighborhood.” From the parking lot he’s seen that there’s a playground over between the next two apartment buildings, past the area’s dumpster, and across the road from their neighborhood lies what looks like empty swampland and a new-looking church. Beyond that, Dean’s got nothing.

“I’m busy, Dean,” Sam says, and Dean changes tactics and pelts _him_ with the rubber ball, instead, bouncing it off his shoulder. “ _Ow!_ Dean, what the—”

“Don’t say ‘hell’, Sammy,” Dean says, grinning, which earns him an eyeroll and a scowl, because of course he’s just said it himself, not to mention a dozen times over at any other time. “Come on,” he prompts, “let’s check out that area across the street. I’ll leave dad a note in case he comes back, and we can see if there’s any path that way.”

“ _Fine,_ ” Sam says, and tosses down his paperback copy of the third Harry Potter book, just recently out. John had picked it up for him while they were still on the road, and Dean’s pretty sure Sam’s on his second read-through at least.

Dean writes a note on a sheet of paper torn out from their new notebooks, leaves it on the kitchen counter where John’ll be sure to see it, grabs the house key and heads out the door, Sam in tow.

They’re hit with a wave of arid heat the moment they’re outside, though at least there’s a bit of a wind on the breezeway. They take the stairs on the other end, this time, leading down and out the other side of the apartment building, past a lawn and a sign with the neighborhood name and a fire hydrant, and run across the wide street while there aren’t so many cars nearby—it’s a fairly busy street, for all that they’re pretty much on the edge of down and near the end of the area’s civilization—to where Dean’s spotted the edge of a path leading into the wetland.

Sam seems intrigued, at least. A bird warble echoes out over the yellow grasses and cattails, swaying gently in the barely-there breeze, and he says, “Wow, Dean, I bet we could birdwatch out here.”

“Of course that’s the first thing you think of,” Dean says, and rolls his eyes, though he feels a wash of fondness. He knows Sam’s got bird identification books stashed away somewhere among his heaps of paperbacks and encyclopedias, still in their cardboard boxes back in the apartment because they haven’t got any bookshelves.

They start down the path, passing through the shadows of the few ancient-looking, craggy trees bending over the trail. Dean wishes he’d thought to bring a bottle of water.

The trail curves around a greenery-suffused lake—more swamp than lake, really—and various gullies, and they have to jump over particularly muddy spots several times. Dean likes the place, though he thinks it must be eerie in the evenings, with nothing but the mournful trilling bird calls and the crickets between him and mountains in the distance.

The apartments get lost behind them in the trees, and they stop by a massive cottonwood for a breather in the shade. Sam pokes around a yucca plant growing in a dryer patch of the wetland, and Dean leans against the tree, watching the clouds move through the blue midsummer sky in the distance, heat waver making the air shimmer.

He’s startled by a crack from above, and looks up to find that _someone’s in the tree_ , and not just someone but _Castiel_ , of all people, hanging onto a thick higher branch and looking down. “Hello, Dean,” he says.

“Holy crap,” says Dean, just as Sam says, “Is that _Cas?_ ”

Castiel just blinks down at them. He’s not wearing the raincoat today, given that it’s freakishly hot, but it looks like he’s in the same torn-up jeans. Given his current position, Dean’s maybe not so surprised by the number of tears. “Hey, man,” he tells Castiel. “You all right up there?”

Castiel regards him with a long, serious look, mutters something Dean doesn’t get— _застрял?_ —comes up, at last, with, “ _Stuck._ ”

Dean can’t help it. He grins and snorts a laugh. Castiel looks faintly thunderous above him. “Sorry,” Dean says, “sorry. Um, can you get a bit lower? I’ll catch you if you jump.”

Sam elbows him in the side. “He doesn’t know what you’re saying, jerk.”

“Shut up,” says Dean, and mimes jumping and then catching someone, to make sure Castiel’s getting the picture. “Climb a little lower,” he repeats, and mimes moving down with his hands and his body. Sam’s snickering off to the side, but whatever, Dean doesn’t mind being caught doing ridiculous charades when it’s in the name of getting another kid out of a tree.

“ _Я упаду,_ ” Castiel tells him, sounding worried. “ _Если я снова испорчу свою одежду—_ ” And he shakes his head, because of course Dean doesn’t understand a word. Dean shrugs at him apologetically. “Down,” Castiel says, finally, and inches back along the trunk he’s on, holding on tight.

“Yeah, come on,” Dean is saying. “Just a little further, inch by inch—you can swing down right there, get your feet on the next branch and hug the trunk—”

“Dean,” says Sam. Dean just shushes him and watches, concerned, as Castiel does just that, inches his way off, swinging down—bark rains from above—and manages to sit down on the next trunk, from which the jump distance isn’t so terrifying. “Jump down?” Dean suggests, and mimes jumping again.

Castiel meets his gaze, and Dean repeats, “Jump,” and nods at him. Dean stretches out his arms and stands sort-of close, enough to give Castiel room to hit the ground but not so far that he won’t be able to catch him when he inevitably staggers from the momentum. No need to let the guy eat dirt, after all.

Castiel jumps.

His feet connect with the ground, which promptly proves to be too damp to be stable, and Castiel goes pitching forward with a gasp, his blue eyes huge; Dean leaps forward to catch him.

Except the ground is more slippery than Dean had accounted for with the dusty top layer, and his feet go out from under him as Castiel hits his chest. They go down together, Dean landing on his back with a grunt, dust billowing around them and the lower level of mud seeming up and into his t-shirt, Castiel’s weight on him making it hard to breathe. “Oof,” Dean manages.

Sam bursts into laughter.

“Shut up, Sammy,” Dean moans, and carefully rolls out from underneath Castiel, who manages to clamber off him to his right.

Castiel is saying something, _извини, извините,_ followed by, “Sorry, sorry . . .” He looks genuinely contrite, and more than a little embarrassed. Which makes sense, since he did get himself stuck in a tree, but is also kind of endearing.

Dean gets up, claps him on the shoulder, and says, “It’s fine, dude. You okay? Anything hurt?”

He’s not really expecting a reply, so he’s surprised when Castiel says, “I’m good?” smiling weakly as he says it, like he’s a little unsure it’s the right phrase.

Dean grins at him and says, “Yeah. Yeah, you’re good, Cas. Muddy, though,” because, yeah, Cas is definitely covered in dust and mud and bark, now.

Castiel looks down at himself and makes a horrified noise. “No,” he groans.

“Oh, yeah,” Dean counters, and nods back towards where they came from, towards the apartments. “Let’s get home and get cleaned up, huh?” His own clothes aren’t nearly as bad, but his dad’ll be pissed if he comes back with mud and dust streaked up the back of his shirt and legs, so he intends to throw them both in the wash before John gets home.

Castiel says, “Yes,” and the three of them walk home together, Sam still snorting and poking fun at Dean’s failed rescue.

Dean thinks Castiel’s gaze on him is terribly grateful, though, and smile he gets for his trouble is totally worth it.

* * *

The weather in the area proves volatile. Over the next two weeks, Dean finds that it goes from dead dry heat to thunderstorms to sleet, once, all moving past in a matter of hours to a matter of days.

Sam informs him it’s because of how the mountains affect weather patterns, which, okay, whatever, but it’s still a _pain._

It’s windy enough that the breezeway gets wet when it’s stormy, too, despite the fact that the roof extends over the stairs. This is particularly unfortunate today, as Dean’s hauling out all their laundry, the basket balanced in his arms as he runs out the door (John and Sam safe and dry inside, of course—it’s Saturday, so their dad doesn’t have to go out in this to work). He manages not to break his neck on the stairs, though he does end up kind of drenched by the time he’s bolting into the building’s miniature tucked-away laundromat.

He finds Castiel and Gabe inside, sitting on top of two of the dryers currently working away, speaking in Russian. Gabe’s doing most of the talking, though; it seems like Castiel’s not all that much more talkative in his own language.

Dean just tells them, “Uh, hey,” and heads over to the open washing machine, sticking the basket on top of another before he starts transferring all the clothes inside and digging the bottle of fabric cleaner out from underneath jeans and t-shirts and socks.

“Heyyy,” drawls Gabe, and Castiel echoes, “Hello, Dean.”

“How’s it going,” Dean offers, and packs the clothes in as tightly as he can. It might not be good for the clothes, or the washer, but he’s damned if he’s making two trips in this weather. Judging by how soon the boom of thunder comes after the lightning strike that casts white light in through the doorway, Dean should maybe just wait for the washing to finish here, especially since it’s not as though he has anything better to do.

These guys are still the only people he knows here, after all.

Castiel says something to Gabe, who translates, “Little bro says it’s going good. He hasn’t been stuck in any more trees, and says he wanted to thank you for helping him get down from that one.” He casts a look over to Castiel, smirking, says, “I can’t believe that actually happened to you.”

The other boy says something sharp, and pulls his usual raincoat tighter around himself, shifting atop the dryer they’re sitting on. Gabe continues, “Yeah, anyway. Good job not breaking both your necks.”

“Thanks, I think,” says Dean, dumps the cleaning solution into the washer and slams the lid shut before turning it on. Mirroring Gabe and Cas, he climbs on top of it and pulls up his bowed legs, looping his arms around his knees. “Haven’t seen either of you in a while. Anything up?”

Gabe appears to translate this to Castiel, because he says something in Russian while Castiel listens and then Castiel looks between Dean and Gabe and gives a reply. “He says,” Gabe supplies, “he’s been hiding from you, because he thinks you’re _adorable_.”

Dean’s face heats, despite himself, and he bites out, “ _What_ ,” while Castiel punches Gabe in the shoulder and growls something at him, deep.

Gabriel snickers, “Okay, fine, maybe I made that one up,” and amends, “he’s been reading. He reads a lot, our Cassie. Working on his English, too, before he starts school here.”

“What grade are you both?” Dean says, cautiously, overriding his previous embarrassment. If they’re not going to make a big deal out of it, neither is he.

“Tenth,” Gabe offers, indicating himself, and, “seventh,” indicating Castiel.

Dean’s in seventh, too, and says so. Castiel smiles at him; lightning strikes again outside, thunder following almost immediately. “Hope there’s lightning rods on these houses,” Dean mutters.

“What,” says Gabe, “you’d rather our crapshack-sweet-crapshack not burn down, after all? I’m astonished.”

“Dude,” Dean says, frowning. “This is the first time my brother’s lived in a place we own on something other than a day-by-day basis.”

“And you?” Gabe wants to know. He’s unwrapping another lollipop from his pocket, because apparently he hoards them, or something. Castiel’s just listening carefully, and when he speaks a quiet interrogative Gabe rattles off a quick response that makes him nod; Dean presumes he’s still translating.

Dean says, “Me too, I guess. Sort of. We had a house until I turned six,” he mitigates. “After that dad kind of moved us around a lot.” He hugs his knees closer; he doesn’t really want to talk about the petty crimes, or John’s alcoholism—deep down he thinks maybe if he doesn’t talk about it, it won’t come back. Maybe this time John’ll stay properly dry, and Dean won’t have to pick up the pieces, particularly given that this time they don’t have an escape plan and John maybe even has a stable job.

“Ah,” says Gabe, and translates this to Castiel, who gives Dean a sharp look, like maybe he can guess at all the shit Dean won’t talk about. Gabe goes on, “I’ve been here for years, like I said. Cassie just moved away from our uncle Zach back in, uh—” Gave waves a dismissive hand, “back home.”

Castiel’s face goes dark at the mention of the name, and Dean doesn’t press, because hey, neither of them have pressed for details about Dean’s situation, either. He gets the impression that they’re all kind of fucked-up here, with weird pasts and not enough money under the mattress to feel ready for a rainy day.

Not that Dean’s family has mattresses yet, but.

The dryer underneath Castiel and Gabe makes a loud _CLUNK_ , and signals that it’s finished with a beep. “That’s us,” says Gabe, unnecessarily, and they climb off and pull out the drawstring mesh bag with all their clothes. “Later, Dean-o.”

“ ‘Bye,” Dean agrees. Castiel murmurs a quiet _goodbye_ before jogging after Gabe out into the rain still suffusing the breezeway, holding Dean’s gaze a little longer than he should.

Dean thinks he reads gratefulness and understanding, there. He watches them go, and settles back between the wall and his laundry basket to watch it rain just outside the door.


	2. August 1999

School starts way sooner than Dean would like. Sam’s excited—Sam’s always excited, for any school, and more so now that they know they’re not going to get yanked out a month into the school year ( _probably_ , Dean thinks bitterly, because he’s still watching the fridge and John’s room for bottles that shouldn’t be there. John has stayed dry for long periods before, but something always triggered a relapse. Dean wants to believe that won’t happen, not this time, but he figures it’s his responsibility to watch for it, because no one else will.)

He doesn’t really remember mom enough to miss her, not except for the occasional wistful memory, but sometimes he wishes there was someone else to deal with his dad and help take care of Sam.

Anyway, they don’t live close enough to the school to walk, so Wednesday morning in the last week of August finds Dean and Sam at the school bus stop—essentially just a designated corner with a whole bunch of kids gathered ‘round, talking over each other—together with Castiel and Gabe, who walk up just as it starts to rain.

Gabe goes to join the other high schoolers clustered by the tree, and Castiel comes to stand next to Dean. He’s dressed sort of formal formal, and his bag is the sort people usually carry documents in, with a big clasp on the side and no shoulder strap. When Dean greets him, he says, haltingly, “Good to see you.”

“Hey, you’re getting better,” Dean says, and pulls his backpack over his shoulder to hold it under his open jacket, instead, since it’s not waterproof.

Castiel nestles deeper into his raincoat against the worsening weather, but smiles. “Yes,” he says, and, “But, I understand better than I say?”

“Oh,” Dean says, “so you’ll get what I’m saying even if you can’t talk back?”

Castiel says, “Some,” and adds, with a mild grimace, “Reading easier.”

From Dean’s other side, Sam, who’s been listening in, pipes up: “What do you read, Castiel?”

Castiel regards Sam with a slow look, clearly trying to figure out how to answer this. “I think fantasy,” he says, eventually. “Stories about cosmos?”

“Scifi,” Dean says, and grins. “You’ve got good taste. Better ‘n Sam, anyway.”

“Liking Harry Potter is not bad taste,” Sam protests.

Castiel says, “Hat in books is unfair,” which makes Dean bend over in laughter, as much because of Sam’s stricken expression as because of how seriously Castiel delivers this opinion about something as trivial as Rowling’s sorting hat.

Castiel seems pleased to have made him laugh, so Dean figures it’s a victory all around as the bus pulls in at the stop.

* * *

School is fine. It’s a K-12, split into two big buildings so the high schoolers have their own space but everyone else is on the same part of campus, and Dean tunes out for the most of the day, going through orientation with about the same level of concentration he usually reserves for education, which is to say _minimal_. He does make the effort to write down upcoming assignments, because he probably needs to not fail since they’re staying, but ultimately it’s still _school_ , which means Dean doesn’t really care.

He gets pulled out to do placement exams after lunch, which is annoying. They stick him in all average classes, after, which is fine by him.

He doesn’t see Castiel, except for in the history class they turn out to share at the end of the day. Castiel looks like he has a hard time with their fast-talking teacher, if his furrowed brows are anything to go by, and Dean asks him, after the bell rings, “You gonna be okay in this class, man?” At Castiel’s searching look, he clarifies, “Do you understand her?” and nods towards the teacher.

Castiel clearly gets that, because he says firmly, “Not _enough_ ,” and adds, “but school knows. ESL.”

Dean finds himself offering, “I can help, if you want. You said reading’s easier, right? I can—I dunno, try and take better notes in this class, I guess.”

Castiel blinks at him in surprise. “You are,” he says after a moment, “very nice, Dean.”

Dean flushes and waves him off. “Not at all, dude, you just caught me on a good day,” which makes Castiel smile.

They walk to the buses together, Castiel swinging his bag past his ankles. As they follow the flow of students outside, Dean asks, “You said you like scifi, right—do you watch any, or only read?”

Castiel says, “On TV?” and Dean nods. Castiel’s face lights up, and he says, “Watch X-Files. Not bad with captions, and Scully says clearly.”

“Oh, dude,” says Dean. “You gotta come over and watch it with me, then, we just got a TV. What about Star Trek?” It’s a rite of passage to know Star Trek, he figures.

“Voyager,” says Castiel. “When Gabriel not—taking the TV too much.” After a beat: “I like Kes.”

“B’Elanna’s my favorite,” Dean says. They’re near where the buses are idling in wait, now, and they climb the steps into the noisy interior before Dean’s able to say, “Kes was pretty cool last season, though.”

They shove their way past people’s shoulders and legs to an empty seat towards the back, Dean kicking his backpack under the seat and Castiel hugging his satchel to his chest. Making a gesture near his temple, Castiel says, “She, um— _telepat?_ Sad she left last season.”

“Telepathic,” Dean translates, and, “yeah, it’s too bad she had to go. At least her last episode was a good one.”

“I thought interesting,” Cas says, “her short life. Gives . . .” He trails off, falling silent under the sounds of dozens of talking kids and the loud idling engine.

“Perspective?” Dean guesses, having to raise his voice a little to be heard.

“Yes,” says Castiel, “perspective,” and settles slightly against Dean’s shoulder as the bus starts moving at last. Dean’s getting the impression the guy doesn’t really get personal space.

He realizes he doesn’t really mind.

* * *

On Saturday, Dean knocks on the door of apartment 6D and waits while someone inside calls to someone else and there’s footsteps and the shuffle and click of the door latches being undone.

A girl that looks older than Gabe and Castiel both and has flaming red hair pulls open the door. Dean says, “Uh, hi, I’m Dean. Is Castiel here—” and doesn’t get any further than that, because the girl whips around and yells down the hallway.

“ _Кастиель, твой парень тут!_ ”

Dean hears Castiel’s voice drift out of a room at the end. “ _Он не мой парень, Анна, он просто друг._ ”

“ _Ага, конечно. Не верю,_ ” Anna says back. Dean wonders what they’re saying, but then Castiel’s hurrying into the hallway and calling, “Dean!” pulling on his coat as he goes.

“Hey, man,” Dean says, “X-Files is on in fifteen minutes. Wanna come watch?”

“Yes,” Castiel says in a rush, and, voice a little lower, “Gabriel _awful_ today,” which makes the red-headed girl laugh. “This is Anna,” he tells Dean while he toes on his shoes. “My sister. Older.”

She’s pretty, Dean thinks, and has an uncanny amount of resemblance to Cas, far more than Gabe. Maybe it’s in the eyes.

Then they’re piling out the door and back across the breezeway to Dean’s apartment, Castiel pushing his shoes off once again—”You don’t have to do that, you know,” Dean says, but Castiel does it anyway—and they’re heading to where Dean’s dragged his inflatable mattress in front of the heavy tv set sitting on a thick piece of board in the middle of the living room.

Castiel doesn’t comment on the setup, which Dean figures makes sense, given that his own living situation appears to be just as sparse.

They stretch out on the mattress together and Dean flicks on the television, feet splayed out ahead of him. The X-Files cold-open starts a moment later. It’s late summer, so it’s a rerun, but Dean hasn’t seen it; driving from motel to motel hasn’t exactly given him a chance to follow Mulder and Scully closely, especially since Sam’s too young to watch without getting scared.

The biologists on screen are talking about frogs. One of them gets pulled theatrically into a lake; the music plays, Mulder and Scully appearing across the screen.

Castiel says, “I want to be like Scully, I think,” which makes Dean look over at him questioningly. “She’s like me. Not understanding—how to talk? How to,” he makes a frustrated gesture, “with people. But she is smart.”

“Oh, yeah,” Dean says. “You’re not so bad with people, though. Once your English is up to speed—that is, when you can speak better—”

“No,” Castiel says, looking sideways at him with a hint of a smile. “Bad in Russian too,” he confesses. “Gabriel laughs a lot.”

“Gabe’s a jerk, then,” Dean says, and nudges Castiel in the arm while on screen Mulder, Scully, and Queequeg the dog drive down to the scene of the monster killings. “What about Anna? Is she any better?”

“Makes fun, sometimes,” Castiel says, “but nice. Cares.”

“Older sibling duties.” Dean realizes this could apply to Gabe, too, so he amends, “that is, to poke fun at younger siblings, but not in a way that hurts, you know? I pull Sam’s metaphorical pigtails all the time, though they might not remain metaphorical much longer if he keeps refusing to cut his hair. Point is, I worry.”

Castiel snorts. “Gabriel also worries,” he says. “He just—pushes much, sometimes.”

Dean makes an affirmative noise, and they watch in silence for a while, comfortable side-by-side as Mulder and Scully tromp off into a marsh to hunt for Nessie.

* * *

It’s an effort, but Dean does manage to take decent notes in history as the weeks go by and August melds into September. Outside, Indian Summer takes over the scenery, trees turning orange and yellow but the weather tending towards warm.

Castiel is grateful for his assistance, and even helps him with his math homework in return, because it turns out he’s kind of a natural with numbers (or he’s just done it a lot, he claims, apparently Russians are kind of intense about mathematics, in school and out) and the language barrier’s not a problem when it comes to algebra and geometry.

Dean actually ends up doing better than he has in years because he’s taking notes in history for Cas and getting his help in math, and in their free time they watch X-Files and Voyager and hang out with Sam, who likes Cas just as much as Dean does. John works and and stays sober; and Dean’s not stupid enough to hope, not this soon, but he wants to.

Still, it’s good, really good, good enough that Dean—who hasn’t had a stable home since he was six, who’s more used to shitty gas station sandwiches than home-cooked meals, who’s seen his dad in states he’d rather not recall more times than he can count—starts to feel an anticipatory sort of dread.

“I feel like things can’t stay good,” he dares to tell Cas, when they’re watching their X-File of the week and Sam’s well out of earshot. Dean doesn’t want Sam to know he has this kind of fear. He doesn’t want Sam to have to have it himself. “Like there’s gonna have to be something bad to balance to good out.”

Castiel gives him one of his stares. “Me also,” he says, at last.

Dean wonders what Cas’s life was like before he moved in with his siblings instead of his uncle. He wonders what’s happened to Cas that he shares the same fears, that this is so much better than whatever there was before.

He doesn’t ask, though, because Castiel still hasn’t asked him and Dean hasn’t volunteered any information himself, so it’s only fair. In due time Dean thinks he might tell him everything, but baring family secrets like that—not now.

It’s not really his to tell, anyway, he figures.

Castiel sighs beside him, and Dean tries, very hard, to remember what it's like to worry only about himself.


	3. October 1999

October is unexpectedly frigid after the warm first month of autumn. By the second week, the first thing Dean sees in the morning when his alarm goes off is frost on the windows, and he and Sam have to dress in layers, piling jackets on top of plaid and hiding their hands under their armpits.

Castiel is already at the bus stop when they arrive, his coat buttoned and bundled up in a scarf, though his hands are bare to the cold for the sake of the book he’s got his nose stuck in. The first thing Dean says to him as he and Sam stroll up is, “Dude, you’re going to freeze your fingers off, even if you are from Siberia or something.”

The book is lowered (it’s a Star Trek novel, Dean sees, _The Escape:_ he remembers reading it about a year ago, piled into the back of the Impala with Sam and all their stuff, the radio blaring Zeppelin while Dean read about B’Elanna being abducted) and Castiel raises his eyebrows at him. “Not Siberia,” he says. “Saint Petersburg.” And, “Still here is warm.”

“Warmer,” Dean corrects, “definitely not warm.” He huffs for emphasis, his breath crystallizing between them. “See,” he says, “that’s how you can tell it’s fucking freezing.”

He reaches forward, then, unthinking, and tugs the book out of Castiel’s hands before wrapping his own gloved one around Castiel’s fingers, like he’s done a dozen times over for Sam when they had to wait on their dad outside the week’s workplace or had to sleep in the car in out-of-the-way parking lots. “Read on the bus, huh?”

Castiel stares at their hands for a moment, but when his eyes flick back up there’s that subtle smile again. Dean thinks that maybe Cas is getting more used to doing that than he was when they first met, and his heart is lighter for it, because the grave expression Castiel had worn that first day by the laundromat had reminded Dean too much of every person he’s met in the dozens of unemployment offices he’s been through at John’s heels.

“On the bus,” Castiel agrees softly.

Dean tucks Castiel’s book under his arm and keeps Castiel’s hands in his until the bus gets there, ignoring the Sam’s interrogative look from his left.

* * *

It’s only by accident that Dean finds out Castiel can fight.

Dean goes looking for him during Castiel’s lunch break, the end of which crosses over with the beginning Dean’s own; the school staggers them so the lunch lines move faster, because though the cafeteria is large enough to double as an auditorium there’s only two entrances to the kitchen. When Castiel’s nowhere to be found amidst the long tables Dean heads outside, to where a length of concrete painted with courts melds into a grass field by the road, open space looking towards the mountains.

A few kids kick around soccer balls further out, though most keep near the walls and out of the wind, coats held close. Dean doesn’t see Castiel among them, and turns a corner—

—only to nearly walk into the guy shoving Castiel against it with a growl and a painful-sounding _thunk._

Dean barely has time to process what’s happening, protective instinct kicking into gear; but he doesn’t get a chance to kick the bigger kid’s ass, because before he knows it Castiel is bringing up his knee and nailing the other guy in the stomach, _иди ты к черту,_ shoving him off as he staggers forward against Castiel’s shoulder. 

The guy trips and goes down like a sack of bricks, and Dean only just barely manages to stumble back out of the way while Castiel launches himself forward, grabs the guy by the front of his shirt, and slugs him hard across the jaw.

Then he does it again, and again, and a fourth time, which sends the guy solidly down. 

It’s clear enough he’s not about to get up after the last, rolling to the side, and Dean gasps, “Cas!” but Castiel hits the guy _again_ , and then Dean’s pulling him up and off, saying, “Cas, _no_ , shit, stop,” while Castiel breathes ragged.

Dean says turns Castiel around, gripping him tight by the lapels. Castiel’s eyes are wild, large. “Dean,” he says, and, “I break his nose?”

“Uh,” Dean says, “Maybe. Man, are you okay? You gotta stop.”

He realizes Castiel is shaking minutely under his hands, like maybe he’s freaked out by his own response. “ _Я слишком остро отреагировал, я—Дин, я не знаю как сказать—_ ” he babbles, swallows, closes his eyes like he’s trying to regain his composure. “In trouble?” he manages.

“Yeah,” Dean says, but he grins at him a little in reassurance. Dean doesn’t know Castiel well enough to make the judgement, but he’s met a lot of other kids from troubled families, and he thinks can guess why Castiel reacts like that when he’s in danger. “Definitely gonna be in trouble, even though he shoved you around first. Schools are bullshit that way. But, dude.” And he claps Castiel on the shoulder, carefully so he it doesn’t make him jump. “That was _awesome_.”

Castiel’s eyes open and meet his. “Oh,” he says.

“Come on,” Dean says, “Let’s get out of here, man. Probably can’t keep you from being suspended, but at least we can keep them from filing more offenses against you, right? I mean, okay?”

“Okay,” Castiel says, and leans forward against him just slightly, like he’s abruptly too tired to move. 

Dean leads him back inside, leaving the guy Castiel fought off groaning on the ground and Dean thinking of what to do; he doesn’t trust school authority for shit—any school authority—but maybe if he goes with Cas to them he can at least explain. He doesn’t want to leave Castiel to an authority figure to whom he’ll barely be able to speak.

“Dean,” Castiel says, as they push through the doors into the open, vaulted-ceiling cafeteria. No one pays them any mind. “ _Dean_.”

Dean stops once they’re out of the way towards a hallway entrance, under the indoor second-floor balconies that ring the central cafeteria and make it so ideal as an auditorium double. “Yeah.”

Castiel is pressing a hand to Dean’s sternum, palm flat against Dean’s jacket. “Don’t want trouble for _you,_ ” he says, firmly. “My problem.”

“Your problems are my problems, okay?” Dean says. Which is stupid, maybe, they’ve only known each other for a few months and he’s already taking on the responsibility of treating the guy like he’s family, but sue him; Dean hasn’t had a friend since—Dean can’t actually remember when he’s had a friend other than Sam, with the moving around, except maybe Jo, and he only got to see her every few months when they dropped by Ellen’s bar-slash-motel.

Castiel gives him an unreadable look, and then, despite his sudden shakiness, a smile sneaks onto his face. “Not normal,” he says, “what you do. Everyone’s problems—” he gives a shrug, “own.”

“Is that a fact,” says Dean, and throws an arm across Castiel’s shoulders to steer them into the school office.

* * *

Like Dean expected, Castiel gets suspended even though the other guy initiated the fight, because school authority is bullshit. He expects Cas to be worried about it, maybe afraid of parental retribution, but Castiel surprises him by explaining, “Live _only_ with Anna and Gabriel.” Which actually makes sense the more Dean thinks about it, knowing Castiel moved away—or got away from, more likely—an uncle, not a parent.

Gabe actually pounds Castiel on the back in congratulations when Castiel tells him. “Little bro’s joining the big leagues of pissing off adults! Glad to hear it.”

Anna’s less pleased—”You’ve only just gotten here, Castiel,”—but lights up once they tell her he was fighting off some jerk that was trying to push him around. “Oh,” she says, “good. You stand up for yourself. If they hit you you’re allowed to hit them back.”

“I like your sister,” Dean tells Castiel before he leaves, which makes Castiel duck his head to hide a quirk of his mouth.

He promises to visit Cas as soon as he’s back from school the next day—Castiel is off until the end of the week—he’d skip, but Dean doesn’t feel safe leaving Sam all alone, even if it’s just at the stop and at school. 

Castiel waves at him from the door, and looks decidedly happy for someone who’s just gotten the first black mark on their record.

* * *

On Friday Castiel spends the night, and he and Dean and Sam watch television together until it’s late, Dean’s air mattress dragged out in the living room once again and the volume on low so John can sleep. Sam drifts off around eleven, by which time Dean and Castiel are watching the _Drew Carey Show_ and waiting for _Frasier,_ black and white closed captioning running across the bottom of the screen.

They don’t talk much this late unless Castiel murmurs a question about something being said, in which case Dean usually manages to fumble through an explanation of pop culture. At any rate, Castiel will usually nod and appear satisfied, so Dean figures he’s either being humored or doing a good enough job; but he doesn’t expect it when Castiel props himself up on one elbow, and, glancing over to where Sam’s passed out against a pillow, says, “Dean, about fighting.”

“Yeah?” Dean says.

“In Petersburg,” Castiel starts, then changes track: “My mother moved here, though she lives—away. Anna and Gabe with her. I stayed with uncle.”

“Right,” Dean says. He’d gathered this part, from things Gabe has said to him and Castiel has mentioned. He also has a nasty feeling that he knows where this is going.

“My uncle,” and Castiel takes a deep breath that makes Dean want to tell him to stop, tell him that Dean doesn’t need to know any of it, but somehow the words don’t make it out, “he is not good. Where I live in Petersburg, it was also a bad place. I learned to use fists because otherwise other people use them on me.”

“Cas,” Dean breathes.

“Don’t worry,” Castiel says, eyes dark and reflective in the blue light from the television screen where he’s watching Dean’s expression. “Here now, yes?”

Dean scrubs a hand over his face, thoughts racing, and has to take a moment to breathe out, because he _hates_ that that happened to Cas, that he had to deal with someone like John during his worst days all the time, that he knows how to fight because he had to learn to defend himself or go down without recourse. “Yeah, Cas,” he says, finally, and looks towards him. “I’m really glad you’re here, you know.”

Castiel smiles at him, then, shadows cast on his face sharp-edged and flickering as the theme song to _Frasier_ plays and the shapes of the Seattle skyline come on screen. “I know,” he says.


End file.
